thrilled and relieved to be back in his own comfortable, messy rooms. As he flicked on the light, however, the familiar piles of books and videos, the scattered clothes, felt odd and alien. He grabbed a fresh pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter and hit the button that rolled up the big garage door that took up most of the west wall of the warehouse. Dropping on to the seat of the Dead Mans Ducati was the first thing that felt right to Spyder since leaving the boat at Fishermans Wharf. He gunned hit the button to lower the door and popped the clutch. Ducking at the last possible moment, Spyder cleared the weather stripping on the bottom of the door by an inch. He roared onto the 101 freeway.
Shooting off the Fell Street exit, Spyder headed up to Haight Street with the throttle wide open, blowing red lights and slow traffic the whole way. He didnt let up on the gas until he was a block from the tattoo parlor. Fog was drifting in when he rolled the bike between an SUV and a battered El Camino with NUESTRA RAZA stenciled high on the windshield.
Spyder was standing in the street before he realized that the Route 666 Tattoo parlor was gone. The area where the parlor once stood was a charred ruin cordoned off with yellow caution tape.
Spyders mind was a complete blank as he ducked under the tape and stood where his customers had scanned the walls, looking over the flash designs. What he felt eventually was surprise. Hed only been gone a day, yet the place had burned and all the debris had been hauled away. Street people had already started a little colony of shopping carts where the back of the shop had stood. A couple of them (Men? Women? He couldnt tell in their layers of bulky coats) stared at him while passing a bottle of Four Roses back and fort
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